The Horribly Moronic Case of Gilderoy Lockhart
by Aldira
Summary: It was almost pathetic how the older man clung to him, Harry thought. But he had to give him props for his persistence. Slash.


Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series.

Warnings: slash (boyxboy)

Notes: Written for the Great Maze Comp: Definitely a steamy session in that [broom closet]. You take a right and see a professor up ahead. It's weird when Professors come to visit you at home. Who's your least likely professor to make a house call?; Hunger Games Trilogy Comp: Peeta Mellark; Disney Character Comp: Tinkerbell; "As Many As You Want" Comp: flowers, maybe one day, don't listen, incredibly stupid, waiting up, "This isn't happening," "Just let me go," moronic, "It's just a crush," "There are plenty of other fish in the sea"

**The Horribly Moronic Case of Gilderoy Lockhart**

Harry dipped the tea bag into the hot water, repeating the mindless action many more times before he was satisfied, humming as he did so. Lifting the pretty, ornate glass to his lips, half a mouthful managed to slide in before a loud knocking had him startling, tea dripping out of his mouth as Harry jolted forward. Swallowing, Harry coughed slightly, wiping the stray drops hurriedly with the edges of his shirt sleeve, standing up from his chair as he strode to the door, wondering who was there. No one knew Harry rented an apartment, besides his friends and the Hogwarts professors. The eighth year students, as the population had dubbed those who continued to finish their education after the war, were given the option to board at the school or elsewhere of their choice as long as it didn't hinder attendance or performance. Harry let out a soft cry as he stubbed his big toe on an end table, hopping on one leg and stifling the series of curses threatening to escape his lips. Clearing his throat, he let out a deep breath, trying to calm himself, plastering on a smile as he opened the door. Dark eyebrows rose in surprise. Harry stared at the man before him. He had never thought he'd see Gilderoy Lockhart ever again, not since second year.

The blond smiled distantly, staring at Harry's face as if he were content to do not much more. Harry blinked, shifting uncomfortably as the silence dragged on.

"Hello, Professor. Is there anything you needed?" Harry was sure that he should still be in St. Mungo's, at least, that was where he heard Lockhart had been situated. It seemed that wasn't the case since the man in question was currently standing in front of him. But as Harry looked into the blank eyes, he was almost positive Lockhart should still be in the hospital.

"Why is it," Lockhart eventually started, "that you always manage to plague my mind?" It was a soft murmur, catching in the light caress of a stray breeze.

"Excuse me?" Harry cocked his head to the side, eyebrows creasing gently.

"Everyday, thoughts of you poison my mind. How is it that someone I barely remember anything about is displayed constantly, so vividly in my head? That is what I desire to know, Harry Potter."

* * *

><p>Gilderoy resisted the urge to tuck away a stray strand of dark hair behind Harry's ear as it fell over a bright green eye. They were the color of emeralds, Gilderoy noticed. No, they were better! Infinitely more captivating than any jewel, deeper than the boundless sea yet lighter than the very air he breathed. He could stay lost in them forever and never desire the urge to escape.<p>

He had been locked, trapped in that hospital for years, surrounded by walls of white as he was forced to build back the blocks of his memory, bit by bit. It had been a long, tedious task. Days were often characterized by merciless headaches and the healers were no less horrible, dreadful company they were. They came in clockworks with their billowing ghostly coats, dosing him with potion upon potion until everything blurred together. Confusion was the norm during that time of his life. His life…He could remember bits and pieces, but even then, it had taken him a week to remember his own name. Yes, he now knew of Gilderoy Lockhart but could only vaguely recall experiencing that life. It was as if he was living in a different body. This wasn't him but Gilderoy Lockhart, or was it the opposite? This wasn't Gilderoy Lockhart but him. Either way, it seemed that Gilderoy Lockhart was lost to the world, or at the very least, to him. For he could pretend to be him, a residue of him that was left behind.

Gilderoy, or not Gilderoy, latched onto the ever present memory that played in his head over and over, memorizing the beautiful green, green eyes that sparkled with every smile and the pale, smooth face, unmarked except for a tiny, but so significant for a reason he could not recall, scar on his forehead, hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. He could describe this boy detail by detail like the back of his hand before he remembered his own birthday. It was a sort of sad thought that this frail boy held so much power of him, revolving around his world so completely.

He was an amazing actor. And from the descriptions of others who knew him, he had been before he had his accident as well. It was easy for him to fake his personality and complete sanity during his final examination. It was easy smiling at the healers who had whispered to each other about his condition, about how he wouldn't be able to leave one day. It was easy leaving that condemned hospital behind after six, long years. It wasn't as easy, though, entering back into the outside world. Gilderoy had been sheltered for far too long, never setting foot from St. Mungo's. It was similar yet different in a way. No one seemed to recognize him, despite his surge of popularity back in the day. He scowled subtly at the wriggling masses. It was unsettling how quickly they had dropped him and every mention of him after his sudden disappearance.

He immediately set out to find the one who had enamored him so completely.

* * *

><p>Harry hummed as he wrote his six-inch essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Surprisingly, there was a competent teacher this year. He paused when there was a knocking at the door, sighing as he stood up. Speak of the devil and he shall appear…<p>

"I would sincerely appreciate it if you wouldn't come bother me everyday," Harry didn't even greet the man before him as he yanked the door open with more force than necessary but nevertheless allowed for space to enter.

"I prefer to call it checking in," Lockhart said, entering the doorway without hesitation, shrugging off his outer robe and draping it over the couch.

"Yes, yes, but my boyfriend," Harry stressed the word purposefully, staring pointedly at Lockhart who steadfastly ignored him, "might be getting some ideas with these needless check-ins."

"Are you done with the essay?" Lockhart asked, picking up and examining the piece of parchment closely.

"Almost," Harry replied, grabbing it back, glaring slightly at the man.

"Now, now, Harry, no need to be so rude."

"Look," Harry said, frowning, "I'm serious. You can't just keep coming over. This isn't proper teacher/student behavior!"

"So you're saying that if I quit my job, you'll give us a chance?" Lockhart inquired from his position on the couch, feet up on the coffee table as he picked nonchalantly at a loose thread.

Harry hissed in frustration, barely resisting the urge to pull at his hair. "There is no us! This—," he gestured between them, "isn't happening! I am happily in a relationship, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. It's just a tiny, self-destructive crush! Why won't you just listen to what I'm saying for once?" Lockhart had stopped playing with the thread by the time Harry finished his tirade, stock-still in the living room. Harry was briefly reminded of a still frame on a paused video.

Couldn't Lockhart see that he would only just end up hurting himself if he continued to pursue Harry?

"Just let me go," Harry whispered sadly. He was given a flash of hope as Lockhart turned around—"Never"—before it was dashed to ruins.

* * *

><p>Gilderoy waited on the stairs by Harry's door, sitting on the cool, metal surface, staring down at his knees, trying not to jostle the bouquet in his hands too much, lest some delicate flower petals fall off. He had been sitting there for some time. Harry had yet to let him in, which was a strange occurrence, one that didn't happen often. Harry had been gone once, for a week, and gave him a strong thump to the head when he found him sleeping on the doormat in the morning where he had fallen asleep after a day of waiting for him. But Harry let him in, making him soup to ease off the winter chill, handing him a warm, thick blanket along with a steaming bowl of chicken broth. So Gilderoy waited, and waited for Harry to open his door for him, like always. But as ten minutes turned to thirty minutes which turned to an hour and then two, Gilderoy began to get antsy. Had Harry forgotten him? A prominent ache spread across his chest. He stood up and delivered a series of loud knocks, pausing for a minute before starting up again. This pattern continued for three more times before the door was opened. Gilderoy smiled, opening his mouth to give some sarcastic response to the late greeting but his lips pulled into a frown at the unfamiliar face.<p>

In front of him was a young man, younger than him but perhaps a few years older than Harry. He had a strong build and an attractive face, Gilderoy would give him that, and was currently shirtless with loose pants on, displaying a muscular chest with a hint of boxer shorts peeking out from down under, something the girls would no doubt go absolutely crazy for but this only infuriated Gilderoy more. Short brown hair framed a handsome face, gray eyes blinking back at him. He was charming, Gilderoy supposed, with his hair swept to the side and pale pink lips pulled into a small smirk, giving off an aura of an innocent prince. But really, there was something he didn't like about this stranger, like the fact that he was standing half-naked in Harry's apartment.

"Good afternoon, Professor."

Gilderoy furrowed his brow. Should he recognize this man?

"Who are you?" he decided to cut to the chase.

"I'm Cedric Diggory," he said slowly, giving him a confused look. "I was in one of your classes at Hogwarts."

"You can't expect me to remember everyone, some people don't just stand out enough in my eyes," Gilderoy brushed him off. "Now, Diggory, what are you doing in Ha—_Potter's_ abode?"

"I'm his boyfriend, I believe I have a right to be here."

Gilderoy clucked his tongue in irritation. "And where is Mr. Potter now?"

"Sleeping."

His frown deepened even further at those implications.

"Listen," Cedric interrupted before he could continue his interrogation, "I told Harry I would leave it, but he's pretty stressed with your attempts at…courting him," he eyed the bouquet meaningfully, "what I'm trying to say is, you should stop. This could only end badly, and he doesn't want you to get hurt."

Cedric clapped him on the arm awkwardly, trying to remember that muggle saying. How did it go? Oh! "There are plenty of other fish in the sea."

Gilderoy stared blankly at the flowers in his hands, crushed some time ago by the sheer force with which he gripped them. He pursed his lips before spinning on his heel and leaving. The sad truth was that he couldn't leave Harry as easy as it was leaving his home. He couldn't, he just couldn't. It wasn't possible. So even if the chances with being romantically involved with Harry were nonexistent, he'll still keep trying because he knew nothing else. And who knows? Maybe one day, Harry might just accept him.


End file.
